Lee Zong-min appears determined this time to leave no room for Lee Myung-bak. In the second trial of President Yoon Suk-yeol on charges of instigating internal rebellion, the special prosecution team has formally requested the court to impose the death penalty—marking the second time prosecutors have made such a recommendation.
At the first trial in February, Seoul Central District Court found Yoon guilty of inciting internal rebellion but declined to impose the death penalty as recommended by the special prosecutors, instead sentencing him to life imprisonment. Dissatisfied, the prosecution pursued the maximum penalty in the second trial, citing clear facts: a democratically elected president openly mobilized military forces to surround and forcibly enter the National Assembly, directly undermining decades of South Korea’s constitutional order and effectively attempting to reverse the country’s democratic progress by nearly four decades.
The special prosecution team also argued that the first trial had narrowly defined both the preparation period and intent behind the alleged coup, asserting instead that this was a premeditated attempt to overthrow the nation’s political system. According to them, the mastermind behind such an act must be met with the statutory maximum punishment.
Yoon’s legal team continues to assert his innocence, maintaining that the emergency martial law declaration was not a coup but a necessary measure to “awaken the public” and counterbalance opposition control. They argue that martial law falls within the constitutional authority of the presidency during national emergencies, and that military units deployed carried no live ammunition—only to maintain order. On the stand, Yoon even described the decree as a “warning” and “appeal” rather than a coercive act.
Such claims strain credibility. Deploying thousands of troops to the seat of government, solely to “warn,” “appeal,” or “awaken” citizens? The notion defies logic, especially given that 51 million South Koreans hardly require a president to serve as their moral wake-up call.
The first-instance ruling represented a compromise: guilt confirmed, but no death penalty—only life imprisonment. This means Yoon’s conviction on charges of internal rebellion is now virtually certain. Even if the case proceeds to final appeal, reversal is unlikely. The real issue now hinges on the severity of the sentence: life or death. While the actual length of incarceration may not differ substantially either way, the distinction carries profound implications for Yoon’s historical legacy and public perception.
It should be noted that while South Korea retains capital punishment on paper, no executions have been carried out in nearly three decades. Since the last execution in 1997, the judiciary has developed an informal practice of suspending death sentences—even for the most serious crimes—resulting in convicts spending the remainder of their lives in prison. Thus, regardless of whether the death penalty is formally imposed, Yoon is highly unlikely to face execution. But the symbolic weight of the verdict matters deeply. Lee Zong-min is determined to attach the label of death penalty to Yoon’s name.
In court, the special prosecution team challenged this long-standing de facto moratorium, arguing that opposition to capital punishment primarily stems from concerns over wrongful convictions. However, they contended, the evidence in this case is overwhelming and leaves no room for error—making it inappropriate to invoke the tradition of non-execution as justification for avoiding the death penalty.
This symbolic designation is critical. Throughout modern South Korean history, several former presidents have faced judicial scrutiny, but only one—Chun Doo-hwan—was initially sentenced to death in a first trial, back in 1996, for his role in the December 12 coup and the Gwangju massacre. Though later reduced to life imprisonment and eventually granted amnesty, the initial death sentence left a lasting mark. Chun became one of the most condemned figures in modern Korean history.
Now, the special prosecution team seeks to go further. If the second trial upholds the death sentence—and precedent suggests the final appellate court will likely affirm it—Yoon would become the first former president in South Korea’s modern history to receive a death sentence upon final judgment. He would surpass Chun Doo-hwan in historical infamy, permanently branded as the nation’s highest-level political criminal.
Compared to the December 12 coup and the Gwangju massacre, the emergency declaration resulted in no fatalities. Yet the potential punishment could be far harsher. At bottom, this reflects Yoon’s current vulnerability. Most conservative right-wing leaders have already distanced themselves from him. In the eyes of traditional conservatives, he is no longer a spiritual leader but a political liability dragging down party support.
Because the right-wing establishment has abandoned Yoon—choosing to preserve its own standing—the Lee Zong-min camp now enjoys an unprecedented political opening. With no constraints, it can pursue a decisive legal and political reckoning, using the threat of the death penalty to extinguish any possibility of Yoon’s political resurrection. This is not merely a pursuit of maximum legal accountability—it is a calculated, timely campaign to bury his political legacy beyond redemption, turning a judicial proceeding into a definitive act of historical condemnation.
Original: toutiao.com/article/1880454884656128/
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are those of the author alone.